


So I keep it low, keep a secret code

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Inception (2010), The Losers (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Community: losers_minibang, F/M, M/M, Post-Canon, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-19
Updated: 2010-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:10:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>See I wanna move, but can't escape from you.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	So I keep it low, keep a secret code

Clay says he won't build anymore, and Cougar just nods his head. Pooch doesn't say anything, and Jensen opens his mouth but then he shuts it abruptly, and Clay doesn't have to turn around to know Cougar's given him a Look. Or Pooch. One or the other, and at some point Clay thinks he's probably being handled, and it would bother him except if he brings it up they might have to talk about it, and this shit, Clay's not into talking about.

They go down for five minutes, and he's walking Aisha through it. Money and natural talent, you can't beat that type of combination, even though he wouldn't trust her as far as he can throw her. She asks, "Why won't you build anymore."

And Clay says, "That's irrelevant," and tells her about paradoxes and closed loops and how important it is to never tell him the details of the maze. "My totem is a loaded die," he says, and he doesn't tell her how it used to be someone else's.

\---

Once, he dug his thumb into the soft flesh of a man's eye socket, and snarled at him, "You're gonna die very badly."

That turned out to be true, but what happened as well is:

No-one truly dies.

\---

Pooch says, "Look man, we gotta know if we can count on you," and this used to be Roque's job, to set him on the straight and narrow, to keep him grounded. Keep him real. Roque with his knives and his scars that he never talked about, and Clay still remembers growing old with him. Remembers fucking and fighting and how he was always quiet, simmering rage, and how Clay misjudged that, thought he would always have it under control. Always have Roque under control.

But that, like so many things, turned out to be a mistake.

"It'll be fine," he tells Pooch now, and Pooch shrugs.

"Allright," he says. "Allright."

\---

At a soccer game, the third in a row that they've dared to show up for, Jensen going, "They're gonna make it to the finals, man," and beaming like every proud uncle would, Clay blinks once and he sees Roque, standing on the opposite side of the field. He blinks again, and Roque is gone. He excuses himself, goes to the bathroom, and the loaded die says six, the way it's supposed to. The man staring back at him in the mirror is older than he remembers, older than he should be. "If you stayed with me you could be young forever. Wouldn't you like that?"

"Not particularly, no. Everyone grows old, and everyone dies. It's the natural order of things."

Roque used to say, when they'd made all their money, he wanted to retire, get married, maybe get a couple of kids or so. Clay always laughed; the job was an addiction like no other - building unimaginable worlds and scaling impossible heights. The thrill of the chase, always. Extraction isn't for everyone, but those that get into it tend to stay. There is no real way out once it becomes the only way you sleep.

"Then that isn't a choice, is it," and if his manifestation of Roque is a product of his guilt, then the obvious solution is to stop feeling guilty. Except of course Clay doesn't buy into the whole guilt thing, and Roque betrayed them, not the other way around, so possibly his manifestation of Roque is just his subconscious fucking him over for spite.

"You're getting weary, old man," he tells his reflection, and his reflection agrees, that yeah, he is.

By the time he goes back out the game is over and Jensen is sporting a black eye and shaking his head. "What happened?"

Jensen just shrugs and Pooch hands the kid over to Jolene and mutters something about how he can't take Jensen anywhere, and his kid is not going to grow up in an environment of violence, at which point Jensen snarls, "Soccer moms got a killer right hook, did you know that." Clay did not in fact know that, but he takes note. He swings an arm around Aisha, casual like, as they walk back to the car, and she snakes hers around his waist.

"Are you allright?"

"I'm fine," he says, "Just ghosts, that's all."

\---

He visits Roque once, in the private care facility Aisha is generously paying for, even though Jensen murmurs about how it isn't safe and perhaps when Clay issues orders for them to lay low he might actually take his own advice, but Aisha is also paying for discretion, so Clay doesn't think too much of it. Cougar shows up with a car, and Clay knows better than to argue with him on whether he could come along or not; Clay never met a man who could be so stubborn using so few words.

In the ward, silent save for the machines beeping steadily around him, monitoring his heartbeat, Clay still manages to be surprised that Roque only has the single solitary scar on his face, that it isn't swollen and bleeding like the last time they met. Cougar whispers something in Spanish under his breath, and Clay suppresses the urge to snap at him that Roque doesn't deserve his prayers, that he set them up to die the way he is dead right now, trapped forever in purgatory. In the end, Cougar just tips his hat at Clay and disappears, and Clay sits by his side until the sun goes down, tries to think of something to say that isn't "You son of a bitch" and: "I told you once, this is worse than death. I wasn't joking. I guess you know that now."

\---

Aisha likes to sit across from him with a gun in her lap. She gives him tequila, and it tastes the same going down as it does out there. She asks, sometimes, "Tell me how my father died."

"Would that make any difference?"

"Not really. But I want to hear it anyway."

"If you want to hear me lie -"

Aisha's own dreams are filled with dust and heat and the sun, beating and relentless as she makes her way across a barren desert sand, burka hiding most of her face. "Out here, it's easy to think. There's nowhere to hide." And before all of this, there's a list of questions a mile long that he wants to ask, starting with: Why does Max want you dead.

But she keeps everything too close to the vest, buried too deep inside, even in her dreams, and all she will let him see is that her father was a bad man but a good dad, and ultimately, that's all that matters to her. Clay can't argue with that. Won't argue with that. "Tell me about Roque," she says now.

"No."

"He's killed me twice already. I'd like to know why your projection of him is so angry with you."

The gun she holds isn't for Clay.

"Your guess is as good as mine, sweetheart."

"Maybe it's just guilt. Maybe you feel bad for what happened."

Clay has to laugh. "No, it's not guilt. Roque got what was coming to him."

"Your subconscious is fucked up, Clay."

"Yeah, I know."

\---

Aisha won't fuck him outside of the dreams - he's mostly okay with that, except she always insists that it be his dreams. "It's a lot less messy than reality," she says, and when she laughs she sounds like a girl, not the woman that he knows she is. "You can't beat not having to fight over who has to sleep on the wet spot."

He kisses her, and she shoves him down on the couch, and pours tequila down his throat, hair a dark wave and skin slick and golden, and it is in fact, mostly better than the real thing.

Five minutes and they're up, and she's grinning lazily at him. Says, "I could do that again."

Clay's never met a more talented architect. Except for maybe himself.

\---

Sometimes, oftentimes, always, there's Roque. He sits in a chair, legs crossed on the table and a card in his hand. "What do I get if my card is higher than yours?"

"Nothing. Anything you want, William."

"See, this is how I know I'm dreaming. You only ever call me William in my dreams." He uncrosses his legs and plants them on the floor, always so graceful in movement for a man of his size. "Did you know, that since the invention of this dream sharing technology, unexplained coma lapses have increased six hundred percent worldwide? They say unexplained, of course, since the tech is illegal, but it says a lot that various governments are pumping billions of dollars of research into figuring out ways to get these people out of their comas. For their own purposes of course. If only they'd have stayed at a safe level. But then, what's the fun in that, eh, Franklin?"

All the talk doesn't sound like Roque. Distantly, Clay recognizes Jensen's voice. Everyone leaves imprints, some more than others. Roque is everywhere. Mapped across his subconscious like a spiderweb, and Clay leans forward, runs his finger across where Roque's eye used to be. Where he finished the job that a man whose name he still doesn't know started. Roque kept secrets, even from him. "You could make up a story, and it would be true."

"Or we could just not talk," Clay says, and it's disconcerting that there's not much of a difference between fucking a real live person and the imprint of where someone used to be. A projection shouldn't feel this real. Roque is rough hands and a heavy, muscled form, and a sudden laugh that always manages to surprise Clay, even though he should expect it by now.

"You can't keep me here forever," Roque says afterwards. He has a knife in his hand and it's pressed against Clay's throat.

"Sure I can." When he speaks, the knife cuts soft flesh, and warm blood drips down his neck, gathers in the hollow between his throat.

\---

The other places he keeps Roque, besides this crappy motel room in a place that's not quite Bolivia:

1) A hospital bed in Tunisia, Roque leaning over him, going, "A woman again, really? Fuck you and fuck this shit," but Clay got better fast enough to chase him down before he disappeared into the wind, and brought him back. He always counted on bringing Roque back.

2) In a stupid yellow car in Miami, Roque pissed off and telling him, "This is not gonna work, this is bullshit, Clay. Pull us out before we all get made and screwed over."

Clay grinning, going, "If it falls to pieces it'll be the fault of this damned car. Inconspicuous my ass."

"It's your dream," Roque said, in the end. "You built it, it's yours."

"I'm just the architect," Clay said. "Where's Max?"

3) Hot tarmac on a Saturday afternoon, a bike flipflopping improbably in the air, crashing through the windshield of an escaping airplane. First level, second level, third level down; goodbye Roque.

Only one of these incidents ever happened outside of the memories of six people, and at some point Clay stops being able to remember which ones are real and which ones aren't.

\---

"I followed you everywhere, man." In the maze that Clay built, masquerading as the Port of Los Angeles, because once upon a time he was the best architect there was.

Max says, "Yes yes, all this is very tragic and romantic, but can we get on with your flashback already, I'm merely a projection and even I'm bored."

"Fuck you," Clay says, and shoots Max without looking at him.

"That was unnecessary."

"I just want to know why."

"So you're asking me?"

"Fifteen years, William. Fifteen years."

Roque's grin is wide when he says, "You want a blowjob, man?"

This isn't really part of the script. It's not what happened. But he shrugs, says yes. He remembers what this is like, crystal clear. Roque is all teeth and very little finesse, and exactly what Clay needs. "Is it the betrayal that hurts or do you just miss the sex," Roque asks afterwards, unsmiling up at him.

"Maybe a little bit of both."

\---

Max is never far from their minds. At some point Aisha stops talking about extraction and starts talking about inception, and even Cougar laughs at that, and shares a glance with Jensen. "What," she says.

"Inception's not possible," Clay informs her. "Besides, what exactly are we to insert into his mind. Do not hunt us down like animals?"

"Maybe we can tell him Don't Be Evil," Jensen interjects, and smiles as if he expects everyone to get the joke.

Pooch shakes his head.

"Maybe we can tell him to turn over a shiny new leaf and confess all his sins." Aisha puts her finger to her lips and looks deeply thoughtful.

Cougar snorts.

"Too long a list," Pooch says. "Once I planned to sell nuclear weapons to hostile nations -"

"The snuke," Jensen mutters from behind his laptop. "For the twenty-first century green terrorist. Purer destruction, no pollution."

"Did you ever think," Clay says slowly, "that the outrageousness of that little made-up toy of yours might have been the reason why Max made us?"

"I think Max made us because Roque sold us out," Aisha snaps, and Clay has no answer to that. "Max," she continues. "Everyone has a weakness, somewhere we can push. We could find a way."

"We'd have to get at him first. Which, first of all: impossible. First time we got lucky. Now he's better. Second of all, we'd have to get past his defenses. They're probably twice as strong now, after the fiasco that was us. I don't know about you guys," Pooch says, "But I don't want to die, not like this. I want to see my kid turn one."

"In any case I wasn't thinking about Max. I'll give you a name, I have a contact that's hunting him down as we speak." Aisha frowns, and Clay understands this at least. Obsession is easy, because it means you can't slow down to think.

\---

Aisha's building a maze. It's a test, and she's passing with flying colors, except that every other bad guy looks like Fadhil. "This isn't funny, Aisha", Clay says tiredly, and she grins at him and doesn't respond. His projections, not hers. They're in a jungle and the trees are high and heavy with dark purple leaves, and every sound they make is amplified through the ground, and Clay can hear his breath, heavy due to the heat and the humidity.

"I think I saw a velociraptor," Jensen whispers excitedly next to him.

"You didn't see a fucking velociraptor."

"He might have seen a velociraptor," Aisha replies. At Clay's raised brow she says, "What? I like them. I'm expressing my creativity."

"A girl after my own heart." Jensen beams at her. "Marry me."

"Would the two of you stop flirting, I am trying to think," Pooch hisses at them both, and Clay raises his head just in time to see Cougar shake his head from way up in a tree. His vantage point, he can see the way out of the jungle, and the rest of them can't. He puts his fingers to his lips, points North. Clay nods his head, hand-signals that he should come down.

And then -

"What the fuck was that?" Jensen says. He pats his body cautiously, just to make sure that the bullets that pierced them aren't still there. Jensen's totem is a bright pink Tamagotchi toy. It doesn't have batteries, and Clay has no clue how it works for him, but he grabs it and then sighs in relief, and Cougar pats him on the shoulder as he passes by.

"We'll try again tomorrow," Clay says, and doesn't bother to check his own totem.

When everyone's gone, Aisha says, "You should work your shit out. It's bringing us all down."

He almost tells her then, all the places that he keeps Roque, and more importantly, the places where Roque refuses to leave. It's been over six months; at some point he expected it to get better. Jensen might tell him that his inability to dream normally probably interferes with the natural grieving process, stunts the ability to move the fuck on. Jensen's usually full of shit, but in this case he probably heard it from Pooch, who at least knows what he's going on about when it comes to the human body and how it works. King of dreams, and when Clay tells him, "I need this compound," he doesn't even blink, although Clay knows he tells Cougar, or possibly even the rest of the team. "Stop being so damaged, old man," he tells himself, and in the back of his head Roque starts laughing.

"Have you stopped dreaming yet," he asks Aisha, to change the topic, and she shakes her head. "Good. Hold on to that. It's all downhill once you stop."

"I love your positivity, did I ever mention that, Clay."

Clay touches her cheek, but Aisha won't sleep with him, not out here. In her mind, she probably thinks it's a bigger betrayal of her father's memory. Clay doesn't know how to tell her: at some point, especially after the dreams have stopped, reality is the one that doesn't count. "Fine, okay. We'll do it your way," he says eventually, because she won't back down, and she smiles as if she hadn't imagined he would even consider standing his ground.

The same trailer this time, Aisha's favorite place, post-punk on the stereo and her hands, surprisingly small, in his. In here, she's kinder, even, although he knows she really doesn't care. In the end, Aisha only wants Max, and beyond that, he can't make any sense of her motivations, except that they probably don't involve her remaining as a permanent member of their team. For everyone else, maybe. Not for Clay. "If I kill you, will you haunt my dreams as well," she says now, her knee pressed against his chest.

"You never know until you try."

"I'll keep that in mind," she says, and kisses him.

\---

Marvin Stegler is a bored spook with a desk job who's still, unfortunately, steadfastly loyal to the agency. All agents have defense training against extractors, but Aisha utters one word again: Inception. Everyone vetoes it again, but if they could get someone on their side, anyone on their side, who has an in with the agency, it's one step closer to Max.

The plan, as usual, is not so simple, and with a new architect there's also likely to be far more fuck-ups, but Clay's always been one for the challenges, and besides, he's got nothing better to do right now.

"So we get him on our side, what does that accomplish," Pooch asks.

"Intel, for one. We could always use a spook on the inside."

"Maybe we could just appeal to his better nature and outright ask him," Jensen says. Cougar lowers his head and grins.

"We're doing it," Clay says decisively. "We're doing it."

\---

All inception is is the planting of an idea, that's all. But you can't plant an idea in someone else's head. That was why the original plan was still only extraction. Roque wasn't big on it in the first place, even though it was Max, and Max had done his very best to destroy all of them, had in fact mostly succeeded, but Clay pushed, and Roque gave in the way he always gave in, and maybe inception wasn't so much about planting an idea as it was about finding the right person to tell you what to do. The person that knew the right buttons to push. He never expected that some day, Roque would push back. And maybe that was the problem, in the end, with inception. You could plant the idea, but in the end, people would make up their own damned minds.

Or so Clay tells himself. He doesn't like to think about the alternative, because if he's thinking about the power behind the concept, then so are people far more dangerous and far more unscrupulous than he is.

\---

Clay has an apartment down by the Miami coast, and everyone else is scattered nearby, except for Pooch, who's with his family and no-one else is allowed to know where. Not a matter of trust, but of being careful. Clay doesn't know where Aisha lives, except that she goes drinking every other weekend with Cougar and Jensen, and when she drives up to find him she always asks him to join, and he always declines. "You have to keep yourself grounded in the mundanity of the real world," she tells him, as if he doesn't know that. As if he hasn't been playing this game, struggling with this balancing act, for years now. Cougar stopped dreaming even before he joined the team, and Clay never knows what the fuck is going on in Jensen's head, but going out and getting wasted and hitting on the locals does not in fact mean that you have your shit together. Clay's shared dreams with them well enough to realize: none of them have their shit together.

"Why are you here then," he likes to ask her, and she grins at him.

She's always building, always down, but at least she has a purpose beyond his own; he can't sleep without the sedatives, can't function without artificial dreams that don't process his day so much as amplify themselves upon themselves, until the clarity of the dream is so startling that being awake seems pale and translucent by comparison. "I want to be better," she says. The training is hard work, and she gets better exponentially, too fast, and he knows she's probably dream sharing with someone else or a few someones, and at some point he starts to realize that she might be doing more than just downing margaritas with Jensen and Cougar downtown, but he doesn't care enough to ask. They all have their own crosses to bear, and they all have to deal with it as best they can.

"Isn't this beautiful," she says, and they're still in the desert, but for once it isn't scorching hot. For once the sun is pale and weak, and the air feels cool against their skin. Aisha has a gun and she's staring down at a village, small and distant but bustling with life if you squint. "We go in, we get out. There's a kidnap victim in one of those houses."

"You're the architect, Aisha," Clay tells her. "Lead, and I'll follow."

\---

It's easy enough to gain access to the train on which Marvin takes a ride every other month to visit his grandparents who live out in the country. Marvin's not the best grandson around, but he's better than many. He's asleep before they even get around to sedating him, which makes it easier. Jensen's wearing the face of a colleague that Marvin trusts, to an extent that a spook trusts anyone, and waits for the defenses to start kicking in. "Relax," Clay says, because they're on a high rise building and there are F/A-18s headed their way, breaking the sound barrier in their pursuit of them. "Can you head them off," he asks Jensen.

Jensen nods his head. "Five minutes, tops." He looks up into the sky and mutters, "And of course it'll choose to rain." Fat grey drops that hit their heads and soak them almost immediately, but Marvin looks delighted.

"Mr. Stegler, your life is in danger, do you understand?" Aisha says. "Come with me if you want to live."

\---

Once, he dreams of Roque bending Aisha over a table, his hands huge on her tiny waist, and his gaze fixed on Clay's when he kisses her. Clay blinks before he remembers that this dream isn't shared, that they're both constructs of his subconscious. "Stop," he says anyway. "Come here."

Roque tastes like whiskey and he tastes like Roque and he tastes like Aisha, and then they're naked and in a swimming pool, and it's the first time, after an extraction detail in Bogota, Roque all of thirty and Clay young enough that there's no pepper in his beard. Roque leans against the far edge of the pool, arms spread wide against the tile, and says, "Come here, listen. I've never felt anything like this before. This shit is fucking crazy." Everything was new back then; the tech, the dream sharing. All the drug compounds were experimental, unsafe, even though Clay had tracked down the best in Pooch, who was a family man and knew not to skirt the edges. Not too far out, anyway.

"We came close though, didn't we. Too many times to count." And this is young Roque but old Roque is speaking, too much bitterness for it to be anyone else. Clay swims towards him and Roque's smile widens, turns free, and he's back again. "Are we still dreaming?"

"Yeah, we are."

"So if I kissed you here, would it count? I've had wet dreams before. The other person never was the wiser."

"Tell me about them." He puts his hands on either side of Roque's face, slides his thumbs along his cheekbones.

"Naw, man. I gotta better idea." The fact is, right now, he can't remember how many times Roque and him actually fucked outside of the dreams. More than a few times, surely, but the memories are indistinct, faded. The shared dreams on the other hand. "You should ask Aisha to join us," Roque says now, and Clay hates it the most when the dreams bleed together, but right now he could give a fuck. He kisses Roque on the mouth, just like they did that night, one of the rare times that they bothered to kiss, slides his tongue between his lips. Roque starts, and loses his grip on the tiles.

He starts paddling, and laughing, and Clay says, "Just remember, time moves differently here." Roque was a quick study; not as quick as Aisha is, but quick enough.

"Fuck it then, let's just get to a bed."

And that's that, but Aisha doesn't show up and Clay doesn't question why or why not, just busies himself in getting the little details right: the color of the sheets and the way the moon shines through the slats in the window-grill, and the way Roque lights a cigarette afterwards and eyes him carefully, and says, "What happens when you stop being able to tell reality from the dreams. What if the totems stop working."

"I don't know," Clay says. "That hasn't happened so far."

"It will," Roque replies, even though that's not what he said that night. Back then, no-one told you you could stop dreaming. No-one told you that you could lose sight of reality, and even worse, that you could simply cease to care either way. His smile is easy though, and he grins, "I trust you, okay. This will be great."

\---

Don't trust Max, is the message they are trying to embed, but the first thing Marvin Stegler screams at them as they're running through the sewers trying to get away from murderous hordes is, "Did Max send you to kill me? Did he? Tell the son of a bitch I won't go down without a fight. I have dirt on him like you wouldn't- ow." He holds his cheek where Aisha just slapped him.

"Calm the fuck down," she says. Second level down. This should be harder than it is, but there's not much point in planting an idea that's already there. One that just maybe needs the barest of pushes in the right direction.

"My name is Franklin Clay, Mr. Stegler. I'm sure you know who I am."

Marvin's eyes widen, just a little. "What do we do now?"

"We wait. How long do we have," he asks Jensen.

"Ten minutes. Go."

\---

Sharing dreams isn't like sharing spunk, or spit, or sweat. It's more intimate, more perverse. Shit that no-one else is supposed to know. Roque always said it was like pieces of him got embedded in someone else, and vice versa.

It's Thanksgiving, and they're in a supermarket, shopping for a turkey. Little kids running around screaming; one of them bumps into Roque and stares up, eyes wide and curious. Roque laughs until her mother comes along and drags her away, apologizes profusely to Roque. "Kids, man," Roque says, and he sounds happy. "This is downright domestic, don't you think? Now where's the creamed corn."

"Aisle six, to the left," Clay replies automatically. It's always aisle six, to the left. The last real Christmas they had together, the whole team, before shit all went to hell. Pooch and Jolene and Jensen and his sister Janice, and her kids, and even Cougar showed up at some point, faintly drunk and even more still than usual until Jensen had to drag his ass away for one of his infamous Talks, except with Cougar somehow it worked. "To us," Clay says later, in toast.

"To family," Roque says, and raises his glass.

\---

"Funny," Marvin Stegler says, "I could have sworn I have defenses against guys like you. Franklin Clay, right."

"In the flesh."

"Well, not exactly." They're sitting on a pier overlooking a lake, colored a rich shade of blue. Marvin used to go here over the summers, where he fell in love for the first time, and after the last summer he spent here, he went to college where he was recruited by the agency. This is the place he thought of when they offered him a chance to make a difference in his life: freedom, and love, and all that jazz. The disillusionment settles in pretty quick, but there's always a tiny spark left. "And again, I really should be defended against guys like you."

In the distance, something goes boom. Marvin narrows his eyes as a fireball rises high in the air. "Ah, I see. Good luck keeping them back."

"I don't need luck, Mr. Stegler. I have the best team there is. I'm not here to try to change your mind. But do you remember that girl, what was her name." There's a man walking towards them on the other side of the pier. Tall and angry and immediately recognizable. Clay looks for the ever present knife in his hands, but he can't find it. It will be somewhere on him. He always did like his knives.

"Cynthia White, yeah. Is she going to be a projection or is she one of you."

"If you don't trust Max, then who can you trust. That's the only question you should ask, Marvin." It's a gamble, but Clay's always been good at playing these. "The enemy of my enemy."

"Maybe, Mr. Clay. Maybe."

They're almost out of time. Clay hears footsteps, and the explosions are getting nearer.

Boom.

\---

"Do you think it worked," Aisha asks.

"We didn't have to do much, so yeah, I'd say it did." Clay pours himself a glass of whiskey and another one for her, pushes it in her direction. She stares at it but doesn't drink.

"He's a liability, Clay. You're a liability. Don't push my hand too hard. I'm not your babysitter and I could give a fuck about your issues." She downs the whiskey in one gulp, and he watches until she shuts the door behind her.

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